


Old Dog Waltz

by twicecurvedspine



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Multi, Polyamory Negotiations, Pre-Reichenbach, Romance, They have a short vacation?, Trans Sherlock, that's about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:21:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24445009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twicecurvedspine/pseuds/twicecurvedspine
Summary: 8k of self-indulgent, domestic, polyamorous fluff, told in 6 parts of horrifically uneven size over the (textual) course of 5 months in 1889.John's a bi disaster, Sherlock's trans, demisexual, and just a little bit of a mess, Mary's straight, cis and on a mission. Nice thing is that its basically all just within the subtext of canon.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Mary Morstan/John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Summer 2020





	Old Dog Waltz

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FleetSparrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FleetSparrow/gifts).



> TW: Not alcohol abuse, but characters do drink throughout, and at one point do get mid-tier inebriated, though in a safe environment, and then they just chat before going to sleep. As for trans stuff, there are no speaking characters who Sherlock didn't already come out to like 5 years ago, but not being trans myself, I'm a little worried I've messed up with it, so um. Let me know if I have? I think I'd have to get permission from the person I'm gifting it to to change it because it's a holmestice gift, but if I've done it badly that'd probably be my best course of action.

1) Late August 1889

It was, for all intents and purposes, a pretty miserable day. On the wet side, with bursts of heavy rainfall lashing the cobbled streets. Any man of sense and means would be inside under this sort of weather. Hell, even the ones without sense tended to stay indoors, because it was _that_ kind of rain, stinging and bitter. So, in the significantly less crowded streets of Outer London, Sherlock Holmes was heading to his friends house for tea. It was a Saturday, you see. It would have taken a case for Sherlock Holmes to miss Tea at the Watsons, and an _interesting_ case at that. So it was that Mary and John’s neighbors looked out their windows to see a very determined gentleman battling the downpour, and commended his efforts from a safe, warm, dry distance. Meanwhile, inside the Watson house, Mary had just exclaimed that even Sherlock Holmes would be dissuaded from forging out in weather as perfectly horrid as this.

Immdiately after there was a loud rapping at the door, followed by a shouted voice, “My dear Watsons, if you’d be as kind as to give me shelter and company, I would be delighted to grace you with mine.”

Mary stood a little straighter, cheeks lightly pinked as John rushed to the door. He was greeted by a cloud of black wool and good cheer, which proceeded to embrace him, calling his name and transferring the better part of a pond onto John’s own fresh shirt and trousers. Even if they turn your shirt translucent immediately it is decidedly tricky to be irritated at a dear friend. John decided that he’d far rather be pleased to see Sherlock than bemoan about his ruined shirt.

He returned the embrace, and called through smiling lips, “Sherlock! You must’ve been mad to walk through that- but by god am I glad to see you. Come on in, take off your wet coat and sit by the fire, add a few logs, and I'll go help Mary with the tea.” 

Tea at the Watsons, was as it turns out a sacred sort of event. Much like the Athenian Dionysia, even under extreme circumstances Tea at the Watsons would only be hastened. This weather? It didn’t qualify. as such.

As the gutters outside gathered water, Sherlock likewise gathered himself by the fire. A quick catalogue - the jacket and waistcoat? A lost cause, even through the coat. The trousers, much the same. He’d not bound today- normally the bulk of the suit masked his frame well enough. Which was a little awful, but he’d make do with some of Watson’s own. He called into the kitchen as he passed to tell the couple as such. 

Looking through the wardrobe. Sherlock realised he’d have to make a couple sacrifices. _Brown tweed._ Fashionable in the right context, certainly, but he’d not wear it quite so attractively as Watson, with it highlighting quite how attractively his muscles had regrown since- _Married-_ a familiar warning for when he began to think as such. 

It was manageable, back before. He could pine from a distance, Watson could call him things such as “dear Holmes” and “dearest friend”, and he could have his heart aflutter quietly, without the creeping ivy-vines of guilt snaking around his throat. Without the certainty that a confession of his feelings would, to be crass, send everything to damnation. 

But still, clothes. Whilst a little wide around the shoulders and cut for John, who was half a head shorter than him, the fresh suit let him pass his own muster easily enough. 

He padded back downstairs, sodden clothes over one arm, and as he passed the kitchen he heard a snippet of conversation- hoping for some observation to please John, and Mary too to think of it, he listened in.

“Oh John, you mean it?”

“I hadn’t planned to when waking up, but like you said, it’s time enough.”

“Don’t you worry about it.It’ll go fine, hopefully more than fine, if-”

“ _Mary!_ ” - Ah. It’s an intimate conversation. Normally he'd have had no compunctions about listening in - information is information, but on his friends? Decency dictated he stayed out.

He'd just gone to start warming his hands proper when the Watsons walked in, first Mary, then John. Mary, bright to see him, and carrying a plate of scones. John however, was… odd. That gave him pause.

John being odd was quite something. _Observe!,_ was the call in his mind. Such situations required diagnosis, emotional removal. He's flushed, nervy- and just that, Sherlock would have diagnosed as the conversation he'd just ceased to eavesdrop upon, but the flush grew to a most adorable shade of pink. It grew further still and his bright eyes darted up to Sherlock's face and away- over to Sherlock’s shoulders, arms,- something that wasn't present at his arrival now was. And combining that with the conversation, well. _It had something to do with me?_ He continued watching as John leant over to whisper something into Mary's ear. 

Now, Sherlock's not an expert lipreader, but his skill is pretty passable. And in that moment he could've sworn John had just whispered ' _he's in my clothes_ ' into his wife's ear. As mentioned, odd. John would've known he would be in his clothes, he'd said as much heading up, so this change is the result of... seeing him? But why? He'd followed decorum, he's not-

“Oh for christ's sake, John, just tell him before he figures out what’s up with you!” A terrible thought struck him. Was John ill? Was he- talking, he was talking. John started strong, holding Sherlock's gaze, but stuttered out nigh immediately.

“Sherlock Holmes. I.”

The pause went on a little too long, and Sherlock was never a man to pass up on an opportunity to prod, “You?”

That seemed to do the trick, as the reminder of their friendship seemed to lift a little weight from John's shoulders, “Yes, now don’t interrupt.". The light rebuke gave a little more life to him. He shook the rest of the weight from his shoulders, drew a breath in through his frankly distracting lips ( _not now!_ ), and continued, "I have a confession. Of sorts.” He was now blushing as hard as Sherlock had ever seen him. He also seemed more shaken, to the extent that Sherlock, despite being told not to interrupt, felt the need to reassure him.

“John, you know me. Who I am, and what's more, I know you. I have every desire to remain your friend, no matter what you might say.”

“It is a confession of love, Sherlock,” And the world stops. The rain on leaden roofs ceases to din, the fire freezes in its dance. And Sherlock Holmes, who has long desired such words from the man he loves, is caught entirely off guard. It's a little harder to find something when you've been trying to convince yourself it doesn't exist, cannot exist for the past four years, but John's never been one for much subtlety. The nerves, the blushing, the conversation in the kitchen. The simplest explanation which accounts for all the data is most likely to be correct. John is in love with him. As in love with him as he is with John, even. 

Sherlock's eyes went wide and wet, his words caught in his throat. He had self control, of course, a great deal of it. He’d just misplaced it for now. Left it in the pocket of his sodden jacket drying by the fire.

John blinked hard. “You didn’t know?”

“It’s observation, not telepathy,” comes out an automatic reply- but instead of the snappish retort he typically relies upon, it is a little stuttered, broken by a slight laugh that is only a little less unhinged than he feels. “I did not think to hear you say such a thing. I- I have loved you for so long now.” The words seemed to knock into John, buffeting him as Sherlock sallied forth “But don’t worry I would not seek to-, I don't seek to-, your _wife_ John.”

The woman in question turned a little sharply to him. “His wife can speak for her own good self. We are civilised folk. I’m sure we can work something out.” 

Both Sherlock and John respond in confused unison, “What?” Mary holds a moment to quirk her lips into a smile at the curious synchronicity, before continuing,

“Listen, gentlemen, dear friends, and one of you, my love. I might have married John, but you two have been in love with each other for at least longer than that. I’m not prone to fits of jealousy, and so I suggest we come to an arrangement.”

“Mrs Watson, You yourself deserve to-”

“I have taken what I deserve, and _greatly_ enjoyed doing so. If you attempted to bar me from my husband, we might need to have a conversation, but.” She paused, and seemed to drink in the sight of them down by the fire, before lifting herself off the armchair to join them sitting on the rug.

“These lives of ours. They’re short, Mr. Holmes. And you _two,_ you brave, brilliant men, you run off and put yourselves into _stupid_ danger for these cases of yours. And then you come back, and you’re disastrously in love, and cannot take any joy in it, and I thought. Could I stand to live in a world where my Watson’s attention is divided, but he would be so much happier, and not have this stormcloud of regret that he didn’t even know was there ‘till I pointed it out." Her sentence built up pace as she said it, seeming to surprise even her with the intensity of it. She took a breath and continued, "And I found myself surprised. Because I ended up preferring that world to this one.”

Sherlock rose a little from where he was sprawled in front of the fire, seized her by the shoulders, looked at her, and kissed her on both cheeks. She responded by pulling back and clasping him on the collar. 

She then gave him a gentle look, and spoke,“You silly boy, you’re kissing the wrong Watson.”

And so Sherlock turned, and nearly broke his nose as John surged forth. It was. Well. It was certainly a kiss. A little awkwardly positioned at first, but they made up for it with the passion of it. They broke apart, a little less composed, with tears and joy in the crooks of their eyes. There is so much Sherlock wanted to say, but all that came out was,

“You,”. And true enough, to be fair. The man in front of him encompassed his thoughts. Watson broke into a high laugh,

“I know!” And is there any sweeter joy than that? Anyhow, enough romanticism. 

John kissed him again, and his heart had not felt so bright in some time. Perhaps, Sherlock mused, a little romanticism has some worth.

Sherlock paused for a moment, looked to Mary. She was smiling, and not a fake one at that- her eyes crinkled up, but her lip wobbled faintly, her eyes were damp, and- 

And John followed Sherlock’s gaze, and in a burst of motion moved to kiss her as well, with all the ferocity of before. Sherlock let out a soft laugh, not the barks of laughter John knows him for, as it appeared John had plenty of love for the both of them. When John pulled away, Mary looked him in the eye and matched his smile. _How lucky we both are._

In that moment, the three of them, happiness and relief mingling in the gentle slumps of their shoulders, in the shared looks, bathed in crackling firelight, it seems like they’ve found something good. John relaxed against the seat of the armchair, and Mary, deliberately shedding the grace she wears about her, leant against him. 

Holmes, his head on John's shoulder, was first to break the still,“This is… absolutely wonderful, but at some point we must hash out the details.”

Mary moved her head up from John’s other shoulder, “Oh, absolutely.”

“Not now though.” and John gave a soft smile at Sherlock’s words.

Mary leaned further to smile at Sherlock, speaking in almost a murmur, “I should think not, this is… very, very nice.”

John reached out with one arm to cup Holmes' face, the other around Mary’s shoulder, and drew them in tight.

2) Early September 1889

On the London outskirts is a popular italian cafe, Pazzis. The owner, Pietro Pazzi, in particular had since given up on attempting to spur insurrection in the Swiss Alps, and had turned his full attention to the culinary arts (coincidentally having defined the precedent of British expatriation law up to the modern day). In any case, apparently countryside air was good for you, and that failing, suburb air would do. It was to be the location of their first date.

Sherlock walked from his carriage, having picked out his suit with more than a little trepidation, and waited near the entrance. John, dressed in a suit perhaps a little upper class for their current dining, being not out of place for the opera, jumped out of a Hansom cab. He strolled towards Sherlock with just enough spring in his step that a casual observer might have called him overeager.

“Sherlock! I trust the evening finds you well?”

And Sherlock paused a moment, looked this man up and down, and said, “It finds me _exceedingly_ well, my dear Watson. And how does it find you?”

“Without a single regret, save for having perhaps done this six years ago, you darling man,” It becomes far easier for Sherlock to smile, the darkening sky only aiding the streetlights in highlighting Watson to him.

“No time like the present then” Watson’s voice is soft as he says it, and Sherlock allows his voice to soften in return.

“None at all.” He looks at Watson as he says it, and Watson flushes, looking back. _What a joy!_

The upper end of the lower end restaurants of London, Pazzi’s was a comfortable place, simple wooden alcoves with cushioned backs, curving slightly, affording some privacy. 

And so it was, Holmes was gazing happily into Watson’s eyes. Watson was gazing dreamfully into Holmes' eyes. Whilst the eye contact was by no means a new development in their relationship, the elevation of homoerotic subtext to homosexual text certainly impacted how they felt about it. 

Holmes was beginning to consider the possibility that just a little bit of romanticism was good, actually, having failed to notice that he was practically breathing it instead of air these days. Good on him. 

Continuing on, that was when the server arrived with the food, causing them to jump apart a little.

“Gentlemen, the family sends their warmest regards, and hopes you enjoy your meal.”

Sherlock turned back to him, “I have received nothing but the highest recommendation, I am certain it will be excellent.” The server bowed out, taking his leave.

Watson cocked a brow, “A recommendation?”

“From Mycroft, in fact”

“Mycroft? Well I never, he didn’t seem the type to-” Watson paused, seeming to chew through his tact.

Sherlock saw this, and took the opportunity to finish the sentence, “To get out much? No, you are right to think he mostly hangs around the Diogenes, the atmosphere there suits him well. But I recall he met the owner through some official business,””

“The extradition,”

“Ex-actly dear Boswell,” and as it typically did, the compliment caused Watson to flush most prettily. 

They began to eat, and though the food was excellent, Sherlock watched as Watson’s brow began to furrow, as it did whenever he had a peculiarly tricky question. Still, this led to some of their most interesting conversations, so he let Watson simmer till the question finally bubbled over. 

“What do you think will change? Between…” he trailed off. 

“Between us?” Sherlock asked, receiving a nod. “To tell you plainly, very little I imagine.” Watson began to shrink back into his seat, and _damnation_ if that was not the desired impact of Sherlock’s words. “No, not like that my dear. You have been so very close to me for what, six years now-” at this Watson perked up, 

“You read me well Holmes, but what I meant was, this, this courtship, there are rules of decorum”

“As there are always rules, but you know me, sometimes those rules get..”, Sherlock paused a moment, thinking,of Miss Adler, of his youth.

“In the way?”

“Pre-cisely Watson. I say as long as we are good to each other, and good to Mary, damn the rules”

“You were always better at that than I Sherlock,”

“Perhaps, but you yourself have broken the rules quite excellently in your day.”

“There might just be merit in your words.”

“Might? Look at us, dining in this place, enjoying the food and each other. I say that a little bit of creative rule-breaking has done us quite well indeed.”

“You almost sound a romantic Holmes,” and it was good to see Watson in such a bright mood.

“It would not be the first time I’ve had to reassess my position in light of new data.”

“Well I never. Holmes the romantic. You’ll be complimenting my books next.”

“Now dear Watson, let’s not go quite that far, romanticism has its time an place, and the relation of real world events-”

“Yes, yes dear Holmes,” And oh. He does like the sound of that. He always did but now, well. _Dear Holmes_. 

“That said, your books are very well written.” A smile spread across Watson’s face.

“I ask one favour dear, from you. Say that again.” John distinctly resembled nothing so much as a cat that had gotten the cream. Still, Sherlock was in an indulgent mood,

“Your books _are_ well written. I would know, it is not my policy to complain about things I have not read.”

Watson’s smile was brilliant across the table. 

3) Mid-September, 1889

The second date went well, the royal opera house, an old favorite pastime of the pair, and that's as close as your writer is willing to get to the opera industry. If it's any consolation for those of you desperate for details, I can confirm that neither let go of the other’s hand for any significant duration of time throughout the show (in flagrant disregard of the cultural traditions of the day). At one point John gently rubbed the back of Sherlock’s hand with his thumb, and both drew comfort from the action. 

What happened after was Sherlock pinning John against a wall and the pair snogging like Parisians at carnival. In between breaths, Sherlock gasped out, 

“You, look beautiful tonight,” He would go to call John a pet name but finds he is too busy smiling. Watson beamed back up at him.

“You don’t cut too shabby a figure yourself Holmes.” The joy in them was full to the brim, and with that joy they began to tread through the London streets back home. It’s nearly a straight shot from the opera house to Baker Street, and along the well lit main roads, the two walk beneath the many moons of the streetlights. 

It was a soft sort of walk, a comforting liminal space, and the two men walking it had no intent to be apart at any moment. 

Reaching the door, Sherlock spoke, “And I do believe this is where we part ways,” and then he saw the look on Watson’s face, “No?”

“I’ve talked it over with Mary, and besides, I’m intrigued to see how you’ve kept the place going in my absence”

These words are met by a decisive tutting from the doorway. 

“Your absence, Mr. Watson” comes the voice of the landlady. “You may have been neat when you came here, but I’m afraid Mr. Holmes rubbed off on you. _I_ ’ve found it decisively easier to cope with, though having the run of the place, ah well, no need to tell you about it.”

“Apologies Mrs. Hudson.”

“Nonsense man, it is good to see you again. Head on up, and I’ll get you some tea.” He thanked her, but,

"As for the tea, not tonight I think." 

The drawing room is much the same, but for a large map of London on one wall, and stacks of papers piled on a chair. 

“A case?”

“The beginnings of one, at least, though I do not expect it to come to much.”

“Oh?” The map was dotted with pins and shorthand scribbled in red,“This is awfully prolific for a criminal”

“Not a criminal my Boswell, a criminal organisation.”

“A street gang? You _have_ been keeping busy.”

“Hm. But their specific aims are illusive,”

“Well you’ve… tracked its presence, they seem to be spreading thin,”

“True enough, but there is no base, no hub of operation. Gangs tend to have a shared ethos, an identity. Hence why I used the term organisation.”

“How peculiar”

“As I said, I do not expect it to amount to much, whatever these separate incidents were co-ordinated to achieve, I suspect they did. Besides, I did not bring you over to discuss work.” As he said this he shifted the stacks of papers, reports and the like, clearing the armchairs. 

“I distinctly recall inviting myself Holmes,”

“I do not think you invited yourself in to discuss work either,”

John paused a moment, a smile growing beneath his moustache, “Quite right. Gin and tonic?”

“Naturally, it’s been a while since we last did this.”

And they took their usual seats, able to lean into them, drawing comfort from the soft cushioning and each other's company. 

“You know Holmes, _oh,_ I’ve missed this chair,” John said, fully sinking into it, “You know Holmes, between you and Mary I’ve found myself quite… monopolised. I was just afraid… is this competitive? All these dates?”

“Oh I certainly hope not!” came a half-laugh from Sherlock, who was similarly in the process of being devoured by the upholstery, one leg thrown across the arm. “Not to fear my dear friend, we are not competitors, but collaborators.” John made a noise of inquiry, Holmes seeming to gather his thoughts before forging on, “Yes, collaborators, mostly by telegram, but also by letter. She sketches you most excellently, I could not hope to be quite so good at it. Besides it’d be counter-productive if we took you to the same place over and over. What good’s the king of Bohemia if we can’t even treat our lovers once or twice?”

“You’ve been conspiring.”

“Only the best of conspiracies, dear Watson.”

They talked, laughed, and kissed further into the night, before heading off to bed and doing what lovers are wont to do. 

4) - Early October 1889 

Some time later, it was another Saturday, another tea. The morning was clear, with the sort of brisk wind that allowed one to wear a nice big coat without getting damp. The best kind of weather. 

The three of them again sat by the fire, John, Sherlock and Mary, Mary’s head leant back against the seat of an armchair, Sherlock a gangly mess spilled out onto the floor, John firmly upright (betraying a little of his military days), his leg laid out to relax the muscle. 

“So,” began Mary, “I hear we’ve been having an interesting few weeks.”

John let out a guffaw, “Certainly. Between the two of you it feels like I’ve been on an almost endless number of dates”

“Ah but truly that is more your fault for being such fine company.”, Holmes said, propping himself up on one elbow.

“I was hardly complaining Holmes, I’ve had a splendid time. I’m just curious as to...”

“Where we go from here?”

“I choose to second that question,” spoke Mary, "Though perhaps in cooler air, this heat doesn't lend itself to hard talk,"

And so, as nice as having a serious chat bathed in firelight and sprawled in comfort is, the three of them moved to stand, joints creaking a little, led themselves to the table to talk logistics. All's fair in love and war is apt, but a more applicable to this scenario is that wars and romance are both won in the logistics. They arranged themselves in the dining room, harder chairs and colder air helping to snap them out of the fire's lazy influence.

Sherlock was first to speak, “This… honeymoon period of sorts has been delightful, but I feel though it might be coming to a close.”

“You think we should relax a little?”

“More that we should eke out some further boundaries, beyond simple rules of courtship,” Mary then spoke,

“Well, we would need to stay together a while to find such rules- you and Holmes lived together, and though we are friends…?”

“We are friends,”

“And though we are friends I have only really experienced Holmes by proxy. I would like to know Holmes as you know him, John”

“Perhaps not quite so intimately.”

“Perhaps, but besides the point. Outside these meet-ups, I hardly see you. If you are amenable, I would suggest the three of us..” 

“Go out together? I am not opposed. Holmes?”

Sherlock jumped a little before turning, “Hm? I think that could be interesting.”

“Excellent. Any ideas on what we might be able to do?”

In response Holmes paused, seeming to work an idea round in his mouth before speaking, “There is… something. I had received an offer I was initially going to refuse, but if you believe it could be of use. A friend of mine in the country has invited me by to visit and watch their house for them a day or two”

“You maintain friends in the countryside?”

“Perhaps maintain is a little strong a description, but yes. We collaborate scientifically.” John raised a brow, a little more incredulously than Sherlock might’ve liked, but no matter. “Besides that, she has invited me by, and I was wondering if I could tempt the two of you into an excursion.”

“Oh John that sounds just lovely. I’ve been meaning to get out of the city more,”

“I think you’ve won us over Holmes, tell us about it”

5) Mid October 1889 

Just a little ways west of the Sandlings of Suffolk lies a grand old house, to its north, the fens, but this house was built on the claylands, rich and arable soil providing its former owners their wealth. The current owner, one Amy Bell, is known to be reclusive, but when met, jovial and friendly. An old friend of sherlocks, going back to both their 20’s, they had cohabitated, but lost a little of their contact in times since. Either case, she needed someone to watch the house while she was off a weekend to Paris for an exposition, and so invited Sherlock to come a while if he wished, his friends welcome. 

The three of them caught a steam train up from Liverpool Street late Friday afternoon, so as to spend the better part of the 5 hour trip dozing. The carriage, whilst not so luxurious as the touring carriages of Europe and America, had space, and Sherlock was quick to lie down and catch some rest.

John and Mary similarly rested against the cushioned seats, legs pressed against each other, and talked softly between themselves as the train sped on. 

"You are certain of this, the whole relationship and sharing?"

"Oh love, don't you worry about me. It's been splendid from where I'm standing."

"It's just, to avoid discourtesy-"

"You have treated me with utmost respect at all times John, it was one of the reasons we married. Do not fear for discourtesy, if I felt as such I would have approached you long before that point." John let out a smiling huff of air in relief. Mary took a quick look at Sherlock, who was at this point gently sleeping, and lowered her voice to a whisper, “Besides, he is quite nice to have around.”

"Quite nice or…"

" _Quite_ nice."

“Oh?” As it turns out, one does not become an aide to a detective without at least a small appetite for gossip. Besides, in the arena of finding Sherlock Holmes _quite nice indeed_ , John had a not insignificant lead above the rest. 

Mary gave an indulgent smile, “You silly man, he is good company,”

“Oh is that what it takes? Good company?”

“I won't lie and say there aren’t other factors, but to tell you the truth, I find it awfully easy to fall in love.”

“Well, I suppose I’m hardly one to complain.”

“You’ve done well off of it.”

John returns her grin. “Exceedingly so.”

They conversed a little longer, before settling in themselves for the journey, Mary herself taking the opportunity to nap, and John working on his manuscripts a little.

Some time later, John was gently shaking them awake, it now being quite late indeed, and they left the carriage at Ipswich, quickly renting board from a landlady who looked close to sleep herself, and collapsing in a pile on the single bed in the room. 

At eight am the morning broke, though perhaps a better phrasing of it would be that the morning shattered. It wasn’t one of those mornings where it took a while to get going, no. The second the sun peeked up over the horizon every cockerel in Suffolk crowed simultaneously, and a beam of sunlight decided to project itself directly into John Watson’s sleeping face. 

He sputtered a little, the flapping of his arm knocking Sherlock awake, and in turn, Mary, who was on top of both of them awoke with a cough and a ‘thunk’ as she rolled off the bed onto the floor. 

She let out a low moan, before popping upright, with a “Gentlemen.” to the two men still in the bed.

John woke up next fastest, doing a light stretch before swinging himself out of the bed. Sherlock, who had been holding him in his sleep, grasped out a little, before slumping in resignation, and rising as well. Dressed in the crumpled clothes of yesterday, they simply slung on their coats, picked up their bags, and ventured out to procure some form of breakfast before heading out in the morning.

Despite the early hour, brickmakers could already be heard calling out to one another in high tones, and they were able to snag simple sandwiches from vendors hawking to the morning crowd. It was greasy fare, sausage sandwiches, and small draughts of ale, but strengthening and warming enough to get them by in the brisk October air. 

It was another brief train journey that took them to the village of Snape, where Sherlock’s friend would be meeting them to take them to the manse itself. The village was finely built, seeming to have been transported from three hundred years past, though Sherlock took some glee in pointing out the ones which were façade to match the older buildings in the town by sight alone. 

At the carriageway they met the friend; Miss Amy Bell, a tall, energetic woman, well into the mid-period of her life, perhaps some forty-five years old, dressed in dark clothes by the fashion of the day. She greeted them with more than a little spring in her step, and embraced Sherlock tightly. 

“By jove it is good to see you,” and turning to the others she exclaimed, “and you must be the Watsons! Come, come whilst I am heading away soon, I’d love to talk awhile with you both, Sherlock has only mentioned you a little in our correspondences.”

“I thought those were scientific correspondences?”

“Well yes, but who’d read such things without a little flavour? We’re all shut-ins, so it does us well to know how people are doing.”

John turned to Sherlock and asked “You talk about me in your publications?”

“You write _books_ about me dear, it’s hardly much.”

The smiling woman bids them over to the carriage, and they take their seats on the plush cushioning, and the driver sets them on their way. 

It’s a bumpy trip, the roads being little more than half-packed dirt, but the company is well enough that the half-hour it takes passes quickly enough. 

“So, how do you know our Sherlock?”

“He didn’t tell you?”

“I only learnt of his _brother_ the year just gone.”

She clucked a little, “Well, I should be hopeful that he has told you my name-”

“I did that, at the least.”

“Well, should you wish to relay how we came to know each other, or I?”

“You have more a knack for storytelling”

“Though not so much as your Watson there? Ah,” She turned to face the husband and wife more, “I met him through Mycroft myself. Sherlock had come to some... revelations, and needed a place to lodge. Having undergone similar revelations myself, though in perhaps the opposite direction, I was available for Mycroft to call on for aid, and who was I to turn down such a promising chemist?”

“You took him in for… chemistry?”

“I publish under a pseudonym, mostly, as my gender bars me most access to the scientific community. I had done an experiment which caught Mycroft’s attention, and so he endeavored to meet me, and well, you know those Holmeses.”

Mary spoke up, “Determined?”,

and John corrected with “No, that’s a characteristic singular to Sherlock of the two.”

Miss Bell continued, “Capable would be closer to what I was getting at. Anyhow, we were introduced, and so we lived together a while, before he set off north to get closer to the centre of all the work.”

After further conversation they arrived at the house, the driver bringing the horses to a halt before a stout grey building, which was steadily being devoured by ivy. The grass was ankle-high, and the iron-cast fencing well maintained. The four of them poured out of the carriage, eager to stretch their legs a little, and head up the gravel path to the double doors. Their host kept up a running commentary as they walked.

“Technically an ancestral home, but we’re all dying off without children these days. I think I’ve got a cousin in Spain who’ll grab it after I’ve died. Anyhow,” She pauses a moment to pull open one of the large double doors, “welcome in, I’ll show you in, then get to lunch.”

The interior was in some ways well kept, with clean hallways, but areas were dusty and webbed with disuse, being one person in a house built more for ten. Their host pointed out the bedrooms, the lounge, the labs and kitchen, before dashing off into the kitchen herself. 

As one does on a small holiday, they set their bags down, and looked about themselves, engaging in quiet conversion as they made their way over to the dining rooms. The room itself would've been grand once, but the picture frames were mostly gone, the arched roof dusty, and what had been a grand long table was replaced with something more akin to what might be found in the Watson's living room. Still, it was spacious, and well lit with large panelled windows looking out over the grounds, which was a pleasant surprise for what was an old house. 

They split a small lunch, with John taking the opportunity to pry, 

“Miss Bell, so you knew Sherlock as a younger man?”

“Oh yes, he came to my house at oh, eighteen was it? Nearly seventeen years ago now. Only stayed a year or so, before heading off up north to university,”

“With Sherlock’s permission, what was he like?”

She looked to Sherlock, who had crammed about half a scone in his mouth, but gestured a lazy hand to give assent. 

“Oh he was quite angry, stomping about all the time, but whip-smart. To tell you, our first labs were filled with him telling me what I had been doing _wrong_ , that I had to relearn all these methods. True to his word though, we did get better results. He was practically at masters-level when he went off to do his degree. His violin playing however, another story entirely.” John broke into a laugh,

“No!” 

“Everyone must start somewhere Watson.”

“Like a dying cat, all across the moors. I swear to you, the legend of Black Shuck was never so scary as it was when young Sherlock went out to practice, the farmers' sons talked of wailing ghosts.“

Continuing to talk, they finished their food, and both Sherlock and the Lady Bell went off into the labs, which were both the cleanest and best-maintained area of the whole house, to potter about for a bit before she headed out. The Watsons withdrew to the largest guest bedroom, in which was a hefty four-poster, and large windows obscured by thick green curtains. The pair proceeded to unpack for a few minutes, before heading out to the grounds. 

Though thick and overgrown with bramble, the grounds were still distinctly pretty, with the sunlight filtering its way through the trees like knives and darts onto the path, and all bundled up, hand in hand, the two enjoyed the chill, and talked softly as they walked through. After a short while of this the sun dipped below a scarlet horizon, and so they headed back inside for tea. 

What they found was Sherlock trying his hand at cooking, their host having left for Paris. Unfortunately for both them and the cooking, Sherlock had been all but relying on Mrs Hudson for anything beyond tea the past six years. Mary swept in and took control, where Sherlock was looking quite puzzled at the burnt toast and sausages that would not cook. 

“It should just be chemistry!”

“If it was just chemistry you would be better at it,”

“That is precisely the crux of my point! Watson, I should think this is entirely a woman’s art, I have no hope in it,”

“You have given me practical essays in restaurants on food before,”

“I have given essays on a great many things in my time, if I were capable of doing all the things I’ve had to study I would be better suited to a work of fiction than this waking world.”

Still, Mary was able to make something of Sherlocks mess, and they ate a simple meal, before retiring for an early evening, John collapsing on the bed, having the lack of sleep on the train journey over finally catching up, Sherlock and Mary looked a moment at each other,

“It is a large enough bed for all three of us,”

“You have been awfully welcoming of me into your marriage,”

Mary laughed in response, “This is hardly the most welcoming I could be, I’m just taking it slow for your sake.” Sherlock’s brows shot up, then furrowed, then shot up again. 

He spoke a single syllable, “Oh.” Mary’s response was to laugh harder “I.. appreciate that. I do. I’ve just gotten… a deal to unpack for myself.”

Still smiling, “We can take it as slow as you need to go. Don’t worry too hard about it for now.” 

That said, they settled into the bed themselves, talking softly a little before falling asleep themselves.. 

The next morning broke with a chill sunlight, doing its utmost to lift the fog and dew from the grounds, as inside the largest of the guest bedrooms a mess of limbs began to stir. 

“Hmmph? Mmmm… ‘lmes” John is the first to move to waking, but slowest to rise

“You have fully settled into this domestic life eh?”

“Whu- what. No just, just one moment” John stretches, highlighting the press of his shirt against his shoulders, much to the enjoyment of the other two individuals in the room. 

“Oh that is a delightful view”

“The sunrise?”

“I could call it that,” and Mary and Sherlock share dancing smiles, having found common administration. 

They prepare a simple breakfast, before moving to plan for the day

“There’s an apiary not far that Sherlock’s interested in seeing,”

“Oh?” asked John around a mouthful of bagel. Sherlock gulped down a swig of coffee, before replying, 

“I’m hardly immortal my Boswell. I need to find something to do in retirement.”

John fell into a more conversational tone “No, that was not what I was driving at. Just that this is something new...?”

“Ah, I’ve written a small paper on the creatures, but yes, this is new.” Mary then forged on with the practicalities, 

“Anyhow, I got myself to thinking that we might as well enjoy the air of the country whilst we’re out here, make a trip of it perhaps.”

It was not too long a trek, moving into perhaps marshier lands, but the paths were dry and well-worn, before finally arriving at the apiary.

They were greeted by a grizzled beekeep, and between him and Sherlock, slipping into a dialect seeming entirely devoid of consonants to John and Mary's London sensibilities, he somehow gained access to the farm, a beekeeping suit, and a jar of honey, which went directly into Mary’s basket. They shook hands with a wide smile, both seemingly happy to meet a comrade in beekeeping. 

By that point the dew had been burnt off, and so Mary spread a blanket across the grass, and settled down on it next to John. They spent the morning lazily, John making more edits to his script, with Mary’s assistance, and Mary making simple sketches when not giving her input. At one point they were called over for an impromptu talk on the behaviour of working bees, which was fascinating enough, even besides Sherlock's visible excitement in it, (which was quite possibly the most endearing look on him imaginable). 

Eventually the beekeep went back to his own family for lunch, and Sherlock joined them for a picnic, with the honey provided, a small selection of apples, hard-crust bread, and light ales, before making the same trek back. 

They rested through the afternoon, splayed out in a drawing room with the light making lazy spirals of dust in the air, with Sherlock playing a little violin to pass the time. It is the evening when things grew interesting, with the breaking out of a sweet plum brandy, and a few fingers of whiskey. They soon became buzzed and giggly, confessing love and friendship,

Mary, having to choke past a bit of the bite of the spirit, leaned over to Sherlock's side and said "This trip has been good, you know what Sherlock, you really do have some bright ideas on occasion,”

“Bright ideas are my speciality Mrs Watson,”

“Might as well be Mrs Watson-Holmes, you’re at least as married to him as I.” Sherlock's eyes were a little damp, perhaps, and his joy became visible in the lines of his face,

“You are a singularly remarkable woman Mrs Watson, and I don’t give out such compliments so often. Should we add Morstan onto that list as well, seeing as we’re speculating on this, to be Morstan-Watson-Holmes?”,

John, quite into his cups at this point in the evening, piped up with “Holmes-Watson-Morstan flows better.”

Mary threw a dramatic hand across her brow, “Oh but Holmes, think of the indignity of a woman’s husbands taking her last name on, society might _collapse,_ ”

“I think it might be the plural of husbands that would cause the most issues,” said Watson.

Sherlock is first to defend Mary’s position, “A woman can marry several men in her lifetime,”

and Mary voiced her assent, “Exactly. I’m just more… proactive about it,” 

“And what, dear Watsons, is this great empire founded upon if not the industrial proactivity of its citizens?”, is the last thing Sherlock says before taking a regrettably large swig of whisky, which went directly to his head

“Col-lonial occupation and the tantamount slavery of the poor?” John called across the table. Sherlock moved to stand, albeit wobbilly, and spoke in the most official-sounding voice he could, 

“We here in the British empire are de-voted to our three values, the indus- industrial proactivity of our citizens, unrelenting colonial occu-pat-i-on and the tantamount slavery of the poor.”

“Don't forget Queen Vic,”

“And a fanatical devotion to our blessed Queen Victoria, may the sun never set.”

“May the sun never set.”, And the three of them fell about giggling. 

Eventually though, they finally turned in for the night, pouring into bed like a flock of discoordinated octopi, limbs and blankets thrown about and half-aimed kisses pressed to collars and cheeks. 

The next morning awoke a mass of happiness, hangovers, and blankets, before separating out, organising themselves and setting to head on back to London and to home.

6) Late December 1889, 

It was nearly the new year, and in the Royal Suite of Claridges, Mycroft Holmes was this year, quite enjoying the company of his brother. Sherlock had been productive that year, with plenty to keep the dinner conversation lively (in particular some bizarre intersection between the geese market and high-value jewel theft), but moreover, he was _astoundingly happy._ Sherlock had been happier ever since the beginning of his rooming with Watson, but his mood had taken an ebb when Watson had married off. Whilst Mycroft was not a naturally curious man, this was not a trait extending to matters of his brother. What, and he could not stress this enough, _the fuck_ had happened? 

The Holmes brothers were men of observation, the twitch of a mouth, a new cologne for the meal, they played a game each New Year of misleading and obfuscation. Mycroft had won the last three years running. He had lost this one- Sherlock had sussed out his tie- an old gift from the head of the Council of India- a promotion from the government in the foreign office. 

“This salmon has truly improved in quality, you know, I knew that changing the import would help”

“Perhaps, but I maintain that influencing the chef had greater impact, the spices-”

“Damnation! You are right- Mycroft what did you do to get him to finally show moderation?”

“Despite appearances, a happier mind is a clearer one. I knew a man from Diogenes”

“Ah! The ex-monk. You set them up?”

“It seemed the solution to both their troubles,”

“And his past with the vow of silence!”

“He seems the sort to be able to hold his tongue”

“Turning matchmaker in your old age?” An opportunity to pry. Mycroft had not gotten this far in life by passing on opportunities.

“You are requesting help in that avenue?” 

Sherlock responded with a hearty laugh to that line of enquiry. “Oh, oh no. I think-” 

_No. Impossible. But. Oh. God have mercy._ Mycroft felt his eyes grow to the size of dinner plates. In reality, they twitched nigh imperceptibly, but for him, the equivalent of shouting across the table. Sherlock, who was watching closely paused, and laughed with the buoyancy of a man struck romantic. 

“Ah, you’ve finally puzzled out mine.”

“You. Last year you’d given up on love entirely, who’s emerged in your life with _this_ level of influence?” Sherlock grinned at him. _Grinned_. 

“Drink your wine,” They had played this game when they were younger, and it was _utterly childish,_

“We are not playing that game _this is the Royal Suite of Claridges for-”_

“I haven’t won since I was a teenager, relax brother mine, and drink,”

“ _This is a Romanee-Conti white_ do you _know_ how much they _cost?_ ” Mycroft knew by this point, at least, he had lost this contest of rhetoric. But, there was still another to win, one of self control- and very expensive wine. 

“Drink, brother, and I’ll tell you what has happened in my life since you saw me last” God, even when saying the very words ‘what has happened’ Sherlock’s eyes brightened a little. Curiosity, it seems, was to be Mycroft’s flaw this evening. 

“Very well”, and he took a decent-sized sip of the finest wine he’d had all year, in the finest suite of one of the finest hotels -Sherlock used the opportunity to speak all in a breath,

“I have entered a polyamourous relationship with John and Mary Watson.”- and Mycroft Holmes, whose tact was used as an example for the young royalty in Buckingham by their tutors, proceeded to spray that fine wine across the table. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure whether to say you're welcome or to apologise for this. Assume i've done both. Either way, thanks for reading.  
> Feel free to leave constructive criticism, lord knows I could use it.


End file.
